i v o r y c a n v a s
by The 0dd 0ne
Summary: People see you as a spike bracelet - dark with this edgy, painful exterior. No one sees that the spikes are stabbing you. /or/ You're dark & demented & twisted & so, very fucked up. Your life is like one sick, sick, sick joke. Don't tell anyone, but you might be as crazy as you say Cat is. Shh . . . Pre - Tori R


{ivory canvas}

You're pretty sure you hate, hate, _hate _just about, well, ** e . v . e . r . y . t . h . i . n . g**. Especially hospitals. You let out a hollow "laugh" and toss your head back, halting the motion of your paintbrush. Then, everything is /**dark**/ for a second, you hope it's not the inside of your eyelids, but then remember that you hate hope. A lot. Because hope means setting yourself up to be let down - and it also means hurt. Emotional h-u-r-t.

That's the whole reason you even paint on your ivory canvas. Because this pain cancels out that pain. So you return to your latest picture. It's a "pretty little star," like the one you want tattooed on your arm, but you're "too young" for that, so you're painting it there. It reminds you that _you're_ a *S T A R*. That's what people tell you when they hear your voice. But they're not l+i+s+t+e+n+i+n+g. Or watching. Then they would've seen your _pretty little_ drawings and heard you crying because you just had to _think_. But wait, you don't cry. Not audibly.

You pause to size it up, the crimson is beginning to trickle off the canvas. Tsk, tsk. Bad, bad, _bad_. You catch the shiny droplets with your oh so, _wonderfully_ pale finger. You actually don't hate the way it contrasts your skin. It's one of those rare things you _like_. But no one else needs to know that. Oh, no. It's one of your plentiful _s.e.c.r.e.t.s._ So, shh. Like you need to say it, those virgin lips _(you haven't let Beck kiss you, you don't want him dirtying his lips to kiss you)_ of yours are _sealed_.

You click your pink tongue softly, you hate pink. It's not even a _real_ color, just a reflection of light.

You shake your head and return to give your painting the attention you never get yet need oh so, _d . e . s . p . e . r . a . t . e . l .__ y_. But of course, that's another secret. Maybe keeping all these secrets _is_ bad for you. What do you c\a\r\e? HELP is for the NEEDY. _You're_ {i|n|d|e|p|e|n|d|e|n|t}.

You smile a little from the high of feeling pain because you're a **masochist **_and_ a **sadist**. But you stop smiling because you hate, hate, _hate _smiling. Smiling means you're happy, and happy isn't _real_. So you smirk, because smirking means content, pleased, but not **_happy_**. You hate when people try to make you happy. You hate being happy, because as much as you like to masquerade, happy reminds you of i|n|n|o|c|e|n|c|e. Innocence is |b . e . a . u . t . i . f . u . l|, but yours has been **stolen** by your m~e~m~o~r~i~e~s.

You hate memories - well, _your _memories. Like when Granddaddy _(Mommy & Daddy were so busy with anything but you that Granddaddy & Grandmommy raised you until you were nine)_ was in the dull white hospital around Christmas, and even though Grandmommy and Granddaddy were separated because they couldn't stop yelling _(but _Granddaddy _never hit her) _and you only REALLY saw him with your little brother _(even then he smelled like alcohol, which you _miss_ like the pathetic wretch you are, and you only watched movies because you couldn't go camping as a "happy family" or go fishing as "Granddaddy's Little Girl" or drive his big, white van in the parking lot)_, and he bled out on the inside because Grandmommy wouldn't take him back so he drowned his sorrows in the alcohol because he couldn't see his baby girl & little boy or go to their soccer games and he didn't manage to quit drinking because rehab failed him. So now you hate, hate, **_hate_ **hospitals _(for failing to save him)_, Christmas _(for going by even though your Granddaddy _died_ 2 days before and no one told you until the 26th_), rehab _(for being useless)_, and you hate white even more_ (because now it's not just innocent and boring, but the color of Granddaddy's Ford and the hospital room you only saw him in _once_)._

You love the sting as you paint your crimson star. Oh, yes. It _fucking _hurts. And you're just numbing yourself to the very core. But it feels so, so _good_. And you love, love, _love _the cold, especially when it numbs you. You take icy cold showers because you aren't hit by the freezing air when you step out and there's no raw red skin afterwards. You're even paler afterwards and the cold is better than the warm that becomes too much, because the cold just numbs you after a while and it feels **a*m*a*z*i*n*g **as you sink into your mattress, some funny video of someone getting injured blaring in the background as you stare into **darkness**.

Oh sure, you read & write & play music to keep yourself entertained, but you don't like sleeping. It means being v/u/l/n/e/r/a/b/l/e, and you have had too many **night**_mares _and you're sick of dreaming in **black **and _white _without ever remembering the _**blurs **__(just like your life, everything is one, big blur with merging pain from all the miserable years)_.

Your hours of insomnia end at some point, of course. Often as dawn creeps to life. Usually because you forget the difference between the inside of your eyelids and the **dark** that you love oh so, _freaking _much. Then you fall into nothingness, not dreaming but not awake. You usually find yourself entangled in sheets of warmth that suffocate you so you fight to escape them. To run far, far, _far _away.

Running away is all you really know. You laugh and twirl and dance in the cold rain and sweeping wind, but you aren't happy. Just content. So you put on a smirk because even behind the mask, you can't be happy. Even when you're awing people with how _talented _you are. You know you spin heart/3breaking, h.a.u.n.t.i.n.g stories, & belt out touching, b - r - o - k - e - n tunes, & draw sickeningly |b . e . a . u . t . i . f . u . l| pictures.

You yourself do it with that twisted little mind of yours. But being talented is bad, bad, _bad_. Because you can /a\c/t\ incredibly well. So you voice a m.o.n.o.t.o.n.e, slap on an annoyed s.c.o.w.l & an angry g.l.a.r.e, & whip up witty r.e.m.a.r.k.s. You drink gallons of black coffee with 2 sugars - not just to counter the sleepless hours, but because it's _so _** b . i . t . t . e .** **r**, like you, but it's balanced by 2 wonderful things it doesn't d|e|s|e|r|v|e dye colorful streaks into your hair and wear several layers of dark makeup because it's a metaphor, a symbol to represent your mask. And metaphors are important. And symbolism is one of the scarce things you _love_.

You put your paintbrush - a gift from your 13th birthday _(and you hate, hate, _hate _birthdays, but you_** \p\r\e\t\e\n\d\** _to like yours even thought that's the one you hate the most)_ - down and stare at your beautiful, symbolic painting. The shiny, crimson liquid contrasts ivory so _nicely_. You wipe away the excess liquid and stare at it some more after cleaning it, the thin lines form a rebel star, you colored it and everything. You'd love to show it off to the world, but you don't want to tolerate judging stares, horrified gawks, and people saying you need _help_.

No amount of therapy can help you now. And even if it could, you hate talking about your life. Your life makes you want to **d i e**. So you wrap it and hide it under concealer and bracelets_ (ones with spikes to protect them like yours, & ones with skulls because death seems so nice, & ones with crosses because you believe in Jesus Christ, & ones with simple beads that you just don't hate, & black and red bandanas, & the bracelets are endless)_ and long sleeves. Then you head to school where you're pretty sure you hate just about ** e . v . e . r . y . o . n .** **e **_(except Cat & Beck, but Andre's not terrible)_.

When you get back to your house_ (it's not home)_ you draw a butterfly on your ivory canvas. But you _hate_ butterflies. Well, more like _envy_. They can fly away, they're _f / r / e / e_.

You're just caged up in this cruel, awful world.

So you decide, "I'll just carve the wings." Because that's all you want. And as you do, you croon a song. Not a lullaby like Mommy used to sing to you once upon a "happier" time _(you can still hear her singing to you at six in the dead silence. Even behind the screams)_. No, you sing a song you wrote about how you know you're not wanted. So you sing the haunting song. It's as t/w/i/s/t/e/d, & cold, & dead, & h-u-r-t as you. You sing it softly with your pretty, strong voice as you carve into your skin even though it's a cliche from horror movies & you hate, hate, hate cliches and often laugh or pass out during horror movies. You ignore that to complete the high as you carve into your ivory canvas. Your pale, pale, _pale _skin.

{a/n: Before anyone says anything bad about the hospital thing, that's something that happened to me in real life, but it was my dad, when I was 9.}


End file.
